


An Apparition in a Crowd

by ConvenientAlias



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 01:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17778107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: The man is wearing a brooch that Eugenides knows he dedicated at his god's altar.





	An Apparition in a Crowd

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aozora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aozora/gifts).



Eugenides spots the back of the man, not the whole of him. A short man in simple brown and cream clothing, clearly a peasant, though perhaps not so badly off. He has a cloak on and it covers his hair and face, but there is a brooch pinned on the outside of the cloak, attaching it at the shoulder, and Eugenides knows that brooch. Remembers scheming for days on how best to steal it from a certain baron without attracting attention. Remembers placing it smugly on the altar. Remembers the chaos that ensued afterwards…

So. Either someone has stolen a brooch from the altar of Eugenides’ god, and needs to be taught a lesson, or… or… or Eugenides has even more reason to follow the man, and so he does. Through winding streets and crowds of people, happy that when he wears a cloak himself, he still somehow blends in, despite his fame, despite his hook. He trails the man to a bar, and when the man stops, he sits down next to him.

“Good evening,” he says. There is no point in being subtle—he wants to talk to this man one way or another. The man turns and…

And it’s him.

Not, not. Not the god—well, probably yes the god—but not the god as he saw him at Aracthus, but a man who looks very like Eugenides himself. He has the same eyes, the same bone structure, the same quirk in his lips when he acknowledges Eugenides’ greeting. All he lacks is the feather-mark on Eugenides’ cheek, and, when Eugenides looks down, the hook—his hand is still intact.

“I thought it would be rude to steal your scars,” the god explains. “You earned them, after all.”

“Thieves steal plenty of things that people earn,” Eugenides says. “I’m sure the baron feels he earned that brooch—he paid good money for it.”

The god grins. He still grins easily, and Eugenides feels nostalgic for the days when his face wore the expression so well.

“What did you come to tell me?” Eugenides asks. “ _Stop whining_ again? I didn’t think I’d been whining lately.”

“Maybe I didn’t come to see you at all. Maybe my business is with someone else.”

Eugenides crosses his arms indignantly. Well. “I would hope you’d at least have the courtesy not to wear my face then, or my brooch—”

“The brooch was a gift, and you are mine to use as I please, so I see no offense in using your face or body,” the god says.

And, gods damn him, Eugenides knows he’s in the presence of his patron god and ought to be feeling inspired and shook down to his bones, but his treacherous mind reaches into the phrase—“ _use your body_ ”—and finds the innuendo, and he flushes.

The god is smirking, and Eugenides wonders if he is trying to fluster him on purpose. Then he says, “Will you buy me something to eat, Eugenides?”

“Shouldn’t my patron buy me food?” Eugenides asks.

“Shouldn’t someone I have favored so highly return me the favor, as much as he humanly can?”

Eugenides sighs. He would say maybe the gods don’t have human money but he knows for a fact that on Eugenides’ altar at least, money is not an uncommon offering. Still, he reaches for his purse—only to find it missing.

The god grins again, reaches into his own pocket, and hands the purse over. “This may come in handy.”

“So it might.” Eugenides fights annoyance. He’s talking to a god, he’ll be respectful. But damn it.

Is this how everyone else in the world feels when they’re talking to him?

* * *

 

It is a surprisingly quiet dinner. No earth-shaking revelations, just bread and soup and drink to wash it down. The god asks Eugenides questions, but they are all terribly mundane. He asks about how his work in the library is going, whether his occasional migraines still crop up, and what the gossip is around the city. He doesn’t ask anything about Eugenides’ recent schemes, about whether he will go back to thieving after his long hiatus. He doesn’t, may he be thanked and praised, mention Attolia Irene. Doesn’t force Eugenides to talk about anything too hard.

It is, perhaps, one of the most peaceful and yet focused conversations of Eugenides’ life. What the god asks, he answers without reservation, sometimes adding jokes and commentary, true, but holding nothing back. The god seems pleased with what he has to say, and Eugenides is gratified by his pleasure.

Before he knows it, it is night. The god taps his hand, the one he still has, and says, “We should be going, little thief.”

“You know I won’t sleep for hours, yet.” The god would know if anyone would; Eugenides has spent many of his sleepless nights praying to him, in supplication or in anger. Yes, he should know.

“We should be going,” the god repeats, and he takes Eugenides’ wrist and pulls him out into the street.

But it is dark and rowdy, and Eugenides is not used to following someone who drags him by the wrist. He is well able to dodge through crowds on his own, but the tugging and pulling, and the disorientation of the evening, has him unbalanced. He trips and nearly falls on his face—but doesn’t, of course, and finds himself pressed against the god’s chest. The god has caught him neatly.

“Trying to fall again, love?”

The affection in his voice is more than he has used all evening. Yet there is something hard in its softness. Eugenides swallows. “I don’t _try_ to fall.”

“Regardless, you won’t,” the god says, “unless I let you.” He pulls Eugenides even closer, into a warm and wiry embrace. “You will not fall tonight.”

Then, to Eugenides’ surprise, the god hoists him up into his arms and cradles him. Eugenides yelps, and the god laughs. “Come now, will you not let a god carry you?”

“There are _people_ on these streets. Don’t you think we’ll attract some attention? How is a god of thieves so unsubtle?”

“People, yes. Are any of them looking at us?”

They were not.

“Let’s go, then. We’ll talk as we walk.”

So the god walks on, Eugenides in his arms, clinging to his neck. He looks like Eugenides but he smells different, like incense and mountain rain. He talks and Eugenides listens, the reverse of their conversation in the bar. Still all about trivialities. He tells Eugenides about a new devotee he has in Sounis—and by devotee he means a street rat—and how this one actually prays to him, and isn’t that a surprise? Mostly they only worship the new gods in Sounis. But the truth will return, won’t it, and thieves will always be desperate enough to need a god, and so they return, and so they pray.

The slow pace through the streets rocks through Eugenides’ body, and he relaxes. Though he has been wide awake and bone tired for many a day, he feels now refreshed and sleepy at once. The god’s voice is mesmerizing and lulling. He does not notice himself being set down. He feels a kiss pressed onto his lips, but it is almost like a dream…

When he wakes up, he is resting on the god’s altar, surrounded by rearranged detritus of a thousand offerings. He feels like an offering himself; awkward, he stands, and feels almost sacrilegious at walking down and out of the temple.

If it is noticed that he has slept in the temple tonight, it is not remarked on. Eddis knows its thief’s devotion, his strange faith and his peculiar habits. And he does not share the night’s happenings, not with a single soul. This has been a private revelation, and he accepts it as such.


End file.
